


(Mis)calculations

by OTPshipper98



Series: Harry Potter in English [40]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cuddles, Drarry Discord Writers Corner Drabble Challenge, First Kiss, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Neck Kissing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starts as Angst but Becomes Hopeful, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Yet Another Fic Where Draco and Harry Find Each Other, nightly conversations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPshipper98/pseuds/OTPshipper98
Summary: This is how they find each other: at 2 am, in the Eighth year common room. Draco wanting to fall, Harry wanting to sink, and both of them in need of someone to hold on to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the May Drarry Discord Drabble Challenge! The prompt was "Chemistry" and the prompter Jeldenil ❤ The original word count was 394 words, but as soon as I finished writing the drabble itself, I sort of just... kept going? And now I've written over 6k and have no idea where this is going. So... here you go, I guess? Chapter 1 of lord knows how many 😂 but HOPEFULLY two.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely Spaceaas for betaing this ❤
> 
> Please, read the tags carefully before reading the fic!

_‘Malfoys don’t make mistakes.’_

_‘That’s right,’_ Draco thought when the memory of his father’s voice filled his mind, his disappointment palpable in the foggy warmth of the cupboard. _‘But this is not a mistake.’_

The potion started bubbling. He stirred three times clockwise, then added three drops of fig juice—collected at midnight, stored for twenty-four hours.

Everything was perfectly calculated—the time, the place, the ingredients. The potion was almost done. He was ready.

He breathed through the weight in his chest and grabbed the last ingredient: python blood.

 _‘One, two, three, four, five,’_ he counted the drops as they fell into the cauldron. He paused. His hand was shaking, and his wrist had turned on its own accord, the red liquid safe inside the vial.

Swallowing, Draco turned his hand again and watched the sixth drop fall with a _plop_.

And it was such a silly mistake, really. So easily prevented. _‘If only Draco’d had supervision when brewing his sleeping-draught,’_ they’d say when they analysed the blood in his dead body. _‘If only he’d been more careful...’_

* * *

 

He wasn’t ready. The breeze was carding through his hair, the moon was illuminating the damp grass far below the edge of the Eighth Year common room window, and the vial was open in his hand. But something felt off in his chest, and Draco couldn’t _breathe_. There was too much wind. Too much silence. Too much distance between him and the ground. He tried to tell himself he was just peeved his father would think his final act had been a mistake, but that excuse seemed stupid now—insufficient.

As much as he didn’t want to live, Draco was rapidly realising that he didn’t want to _die_.

“What the…Malfoy?”

Draco jumped around, alarmed. “What—!”

Potter’s eyes fell on the vial. On Draco’s body, half-sat, half-hanging from the windowsill.

“You’re—”

“No—!”

“Yeah,” Potter breathed. He looked gaunt. “You’re trying to...to end your life.”

Draco gulped, his heart a mess as Potter, against all Gryffindor logic, dropped on the sofa nearest Draco. The sight of him in his fluffy pyjamas, so late at night, felt... _off_.

“Who would have thought,” Potter said after a moment, “Who would have thought you, of all people, would be the one to…”

He didn’t continue. Instead, he rolled up his sleeve and traced his fingers over several furious red lines on his own skin.

Draco's breath caught somewhere in his lungs. There was a rush of blood in his ears, and it felt like the wind itself had stilled—like the night didn't expand behind his back anymore. Potter's messy hair was all he could see; Potter's hand, moving up and down, slowly scratching the cuts he'd carved into his own forearm.

“No one knows about this.” Potter's voice barely filled the silence of the common room. “No one knows a damn thing about me anymore.”

Draco draped his leg over the windowsill so he could face Potter. He deposited the vial on the cold rock, and at that his heart gave a little tug—one of loss, of uncertainty. One of painstaking, utter relief.

“What is there to know, then?” He sounded too open, he thought—too desperate for a distraction, for the solace of having someone's understanding. And so he added, “Because as far as I'm concerned, you're just a reckless idiot with a hero complex who's done nothing to deserve his fame.”

A humourless huff escaped Potter as he shook his head, still leaned forward in defeat.

“This is ridiculous,” he murmured, shaking his head once more. “Of _course_ you’d understand. Of course you would.”

Annoyance tugged at Draco then.

“Care to verbalize your thoughts in a way that is understandable to us mere mortals?”

Potter’s eyes found his for a moment. The corner of his lips twitched, and Draco found himself holding his breath. It barely lasted an instant, but… _Salazar_ , Potter's expression was so _open,_ it just seemed to touch the very core of Draco’s magic.

But then he was breathing again, and the moment was over, and Potter was making a vague gesture in the direction of the arm of the sofa, where he'd messily draped his invisibility cloak.

“I was going to the lake,” was the explanation he gave. “I go there a few nights a week. To…” And there he paused, as though he was trying to figure it out himself. “To stare at the water. To play with it with my fingers, sometimes to put my feet in it.” He let his head fall on the sofa backrest, his body slouching forward a bit as he laughed incredulously at his own confession, a breathless little sound. “I like to fantasize about what it would feel like to let myself sink into it. It's freezing, you know. It'd probably hurt.”

The silence that followed felt scary, in that Draco found himself searching for the right words—for anything to say that would make the moment stretch, that would make Potter stay there just a little bit longer.

In the end, Draco settled for a murmured, “Would you want it to hurt?”

Potter's head fell to the side, and their gazes held this time. Potter's face was weirdly unreadable when he said, his eyes dropping to the vial for a moment, “Wouldn't you?”

Draco swallowed. “I—guess I… gosh, I don't know.”

Potter breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. His hands had fallen to his sides, but Draco could see he was pressing the wounds of his arm to the side of his knee.

“Guess I'm the weird one, then,” Potter said after a moment. “Not that that's new.” He stared past Draco, out the window and into the night, and his eyebrows moved slightly when his eyes focused on the windowsill again. “Were you planning on dying from that thing, then? Not from the fall?”

Draco looked down too. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—the knowledge that if he were to grab the vial and drink it all in one gulp, he'd fall to his death right then and there. Right in front of Potter. He quickly looked back up, though, when his heart jumped in fear, and he said, “Both. You know…” he added at the movement of Potter's eyebrows, “Just in case one doesn't work, the other will finish the job, yeah?”

Potter looked him in the eye again.

“Your potion wouldn't have failed, Draco.”

Draco’s breath caught. What right did Potter have to call him by his name? To say something that conveyed such a deep, personal knowledge of him, and much less in a moment like this? His heartbeat quickened again, and he was sure his cheeks felt hot against the nightly breeze, but before he could form a coherent reply Potter was patting the sofa, an absent-minded gesture, and standing up with a murmured, “Right. Well.” He grabbed the cloak from the armrest, enveloped his shoulders in it. “If that’s all…”

“Wait.” The word left Draco without his permission. “Wait,” he repeated, calmer, wiggling to a stand. The knowledge that the vial was still on the windowsill didn’t take as much space in his mind as the embarrassment from his own words. “I can—maybe, um. Go with you. To the lake.”

Potter—well, Potter’s _head_ , stared him down with a sceptical, but otherwise unaffected expression. When he didn’t reply, Draco felt the need to add,

“I figured having me around might help. If I'm there pestering you, you'll have to concentrate on not drowning me, rather than drowning yourself.”

Potter snorted, apparently unintentionally. But the look on his face was just as serious as before, and when he said his next words, Draco saw a tiny pang of pain cross his expression.

“If I wanted to drown you, I wouldn’t have saved you from the flames.”

 _Fuck._ An unexpected sense of dread and unease filled Draco’s chest, and for a moment he was surrounded by fire again. Sweating, hanging, about to fall. He inhaled sharply, like he’d taught himself to do when the feeling overwhelmed him.

“Well then do it for me,” he said, his voice much shakier than he would have liked. “You don’t want me to die, so let me come with you.” He looked at Potter. “Don’t just leave me here.”

The breeze surged through the window just for a moment, but it was enough to catch in Potter’s messy strands of hair, making them move around his expression—one of open bewilderment, and yet of calmness. At that moment, even without his Invisibility Cloak, Potter could have melted into the night, and suddenly Draco felt like he was looking at him for the first time. Truly looking at him—past the anger, the hate. Past the fear. Past the lumps that had been covering Potter’s face the previous year, one little moment unfolding between them, Draco’s heart thundering as he kept Potter’s identity from his family.

In that moment, Draco thought, Potter looked more like a saviour than he ever had before.

“Okay,” Potter murmured. He lifted an arm, the cloak with it. “Okay. Get in here.”

Draco took an eager step forward, then remembered the vial. He grabbed it and, with a shaky hand, he corked it before slipping under Potter’s cloak.

“It won’t cover our feet like this, so watch out for Filch,” Potter whispered. And oh, had he always been so warm this close up?

“Okay.” Draco breathed in, and was unwittingly confronted with a smell he could only describe as purely _Potter_. He told himself he wasn’t affected by it—that he was just reacting strongly because of the circumstances. But the truth was very different and he knew it. Knew how he’d felt every single time he’d sneaked glances in Potter’s direction since the beginning of their eighth year. Knew the territory he’d been stepping into every night, curling his body around his pillow and imagining wavy strands of black hair pressed against his face as he sunk into the fabric.

This time, though—this time he felt different. Potter didn’t feel so far out of reach anymore.

Potter’s hand found Draco’s waist, holding tight to keep him close as they made their way out of the common room and through the halls of the castle. Draco’s lungs quickly became impatient, breathing out before they were filled, breathing back in before he could stop them.

They made their way to the gardens mostly in silence, just little quips of ‘Mind the step’ and ‘Don’t hit that suit of armour’ scattered here and there. But Potter’s fingers never quite left the hem of Draco’s pyjamas, never quite stopped brushing Draco’s waist as they stumbled out of the sober stare of the castle, and by the time they could safely uncover themselves, Draco’s mind was a mess of want, of fear, and of unfurling thoughts that seemed to lead nowhere, but always came back to Potter’s scent and touch, to Potter’s body brushing against his own. To Potter’s words. _‘Your potion wouldn’t have failed, Draco.’ ‘If I wanted to drown you, I wouldn’t have saved you from the flames.’_

Without looking back, Potter made his way to a nearby flattened rock. He sat on it, heavily, and shoved his shoes aside, closely followed by his socks.

Draco took a step, shivered, and pulled his wand from his pocket to cast a heating spell around the both of them. Potter looked up at him as he sat down beside him—knees up, his feet still safe inside his warm shoes.

“I never do that,” Potter said. He'd dipped his feet into the lake.

“You never keep your feet dry?”

“I never cast heating spells,” Potter huffed. “It's the cold that makes me…” He drifted off for a moment, and it wasn't until Draco hummed in curiosity that he slightly shook his head and mumbled, “Nevermind.”

Draco side-eyed him as Potter stared out into the night. He took in Potter's posture—the way he was leaned forward, knees pressed together and shaking a bit. The way his lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyebrows low as though he was concentrating on an upsetting thought. The way his hand was playing with a patch of grass that had grown in a crack on the rock, right between them.

Draco wanted to look away but found he couldn't. Just knowing no one had ever seen Potter like this, that this was a scene that belonged to him alone, was doing things to him. How many nights had Potter spent like this, hunched and preoccupied and shaking and alone? How many times had he wondered if he'd ever let anyone see him like this? And to think it was _Draco, of all people_ to have the privilege to…

“What?” Potter suddenly snapped, his eyes flicking to Draco for a second, his frown still in place.

“What?” Draco repeated.

“You're staring at me.”

“No I'm not,” he lied. “I was looking at the forest. Honestly, why would I want to—”

“Look, I know I'm a freak, okay?” Potter interrupted. “Just—try not to rub it in my face, please? I'm trying to forget here.”

“A—Potter, you're not a freak.” A thought crossed his mind, and before he could think better of it, he added, “In fact, you're one of the least interesting people I know. What even are your hobbies, other than Quidditch and breaking the law? Bit pathetic, if you ask me.”

“It’s not like I enjoyed breaking the law, you know,” Potter muttered. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

"Yeah, I know,” Draco mumbled, staring off into the distance too, now. “I could say the same.”

In the silence that followed, Draco found himself fidgeting with the warm vial that was safely tucked in the depths of his pocket. When he inevitably pulled it out to stare at it as it turned in his hand, a heavy feeling grew in his chest—like someone had added a few more rocks to his heart.

“I thought this was the right decision,” he mumbled into the night. “I think I’ve convinced myself it is. But sitting on that windowsill, feeling what I _really_ was about to do, it—made me doubt. For a moment there, I just knew… I just knew I’d regret it. If I fell.” He swallowed. He didn’t dare say out loud, but he was suddenly aware of a little part of him he hadn’t dared notice until that instant. A part of him that had been praying someone would walk in and save him from the fall.

“Yeah,” Potter breathed. “I know that feeling.” He pulled out some of the spears of grass he’d been playing with. He let them fall over his legs, then picked a single one of them and started tearing it in little squares over his knees. “I also know what the opposite feels like,” he said then, his tone so low Draco wondered if he’d ever said this out loud before. “Regretting coming back.”

“Yeah, because you’ve been dead—how many times? Ten?” Draco quipped. But then Potter turned to him, and the moonlight seemed to deepen the circles under his eyes. He didn’t say anything—he just held Draco’s gaze until he inevitably mumbled a weak, “Wait, are you saying…? But that’s—no one comes back from the dead. That’s absurd.”

“Yes, well,” Potter said with a huff, “Sorry to burst your bubble.” He started breaking another spear of grass. “I’m starting to think I’m the only one who’s stupid enough to come back.”

Draco breathed. He breathed, and when the air left him he realised his lungs were heavy with urgency and confusion and inexplicable _loss_. It was like they were telling him—screaming at him—that Potter couldn’t die. He simply _couldn’t_. There was no Hogwarts, no world, no—nothing to hold on to if there wasn’t Harry Potter.

Taken aback by the force of his own thoughts, Draco almost ran away. He almost stood up and stormed off without looking back at Potter. Except he didn’t move. How could he leave Potter alone after that confession?

Instead, he uncorked the vial. Potter’s head snapped to it, but before he could say anything, Draco stretched his arm and emptied the potion into the lake.

“Won’t that kill the mermaids?” Potter said when Draco briskly put the cork back and tucked the vial in his pocket.

“It’s called _diluting_ ,” he said. “The mermaids will be fine.”

“Hmm.” Potter stared at him for a moment. Then he turned his head away. “I think that was a good decision.”

The soft waves of the lake lapped against Potter’s ankles, splashing a few droplets on his skin and the hem of his pyjama bottoms, which he’d messily rolled up. An owl hooted nearby, a lonely chant that made Draco's next breath come out shaky.

Beside him, Potter wiped the green bits of grass from his legs.

“When did you…?” Draco couldn't bring himself to say it. “ _How?_ ”

“In the forest, during the battle of Hogwarts,” Potter said, simply as that.

Draco was staring again. How could he not? But Potter didn't say anything this time—he just let a weird kind of silence pass between them for a moment, back and forth, and then added a murmured, “It was cold, then, too. My body, you know?”

“Fuck, Potter,” Draco breathed.

“Yeah. I agree.” Potter rested his hands behind him on the stone—rested his head back, eyes closed, exposing his throat to the gentle caress of the moonlight. “Fuck.”

Draco swallowed. The movement of Potter's Adam's apple when he said that last word made him want to reach out, to brush Potter's soft skin with his fingertips. It would be warm, now, thanks to the spell he'd cast—not cold like the day he'd… _Merlin_. Like the day he'd _died_.

How many times had he fantasized about burying his face in the curve of that neck? About smelling Potter's scent, about trailing kisses from just behind Potter's ear all the way to the curve of his shoulder?

And to think he could have lost it all… that Potter could have chosen to…

Draco snapped his eyes away from Potter the moment he felt the pain in his chest shift into something close to tears. He took a deep breath.

“I shouldn't be here,” he said after a moment; to Potter or to himself, or maybe to the both of them.

Potter frowned, which Draco guessed made sense. He was the one who’d asked to join Potter by the lake, after all.

“I'm not keeping you,” Potter said after a moment, his eyes still closed.

“You're—” Draco frowned, trying to understand his own thoughts. His own _feelings._ “You’re _telling_ me things. I can't just—”

“Sorry.” Potter sat straight again. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, looked down. “I didn't mean to—to freak you out. I just have no one to talk to about…” A sigh. “Well, about anything. No one would understand.” He side-eyed Draco. “I may have assumed you would. Sorry about that.”

And it wasn’t fair, was it? That Draco wanted to say so many things, but that words would fail him like that at the sheer beauty that was a moonlit Harry Potter.

“Apologising doesn't suit you,” he managed after a moment, fearing anything else he could say would reveal too much about the… the _strength_ of his feelings for the git.

“Yeah, I guess it doesn't,” Potter chuckled, his shoulders relaxing. “Least of all to you. My younger self would certainly be disappointed.”

Draco forced himself to relax—to stay in tune with the tone of the conversation. He joked, “Mine sure is,” then leaned back the same way Potter had a moment before, closing his eyes. He needed a good excuse to not have to look at Potter for a minute or two.

He'd barely managed to let out a breath of relief when he felt warm fingers brushing against his. His eyes snapped open. He straightened.

Potter was staring at him in horror.

“I—um, I was trying to lean back too, I wasn't intending to—”

“That's okay, don’t worry,” Draco said quickly. Heat soared through him, setting his face on fire, and he looked away, hoping the darkness of the night would do the rest.

But the moon was almost full, and when Draco couldn't stand the silence anymore and he turned his head back to Potter, the gaze that met him was curious. Bewildered. _Interested_.

Draco tried to control his breathing, but it was to no avail. Potter had that expression plastered all over his face—the one he sported when the pieces of a puzzle finally fit together in his mind.

Draco stared in mild horror as Potter slowly, oh-so-slowly, rested his fingers on Draco's where they were still resting on the stone.

Draco's breath hitched.

“Is this…” Potter trailed his touch up, up to his knuckles and between the ridges of his hand. “Is _this_ okay?”

Draco wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry, and to scream, and gasp, because Potter had realised he was blushing and he'd decided to _touch him_ , and he was fairly sure he was combusting.

He held his breath and nodded.

Potter traced the shape of his thumb and nodded too, almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he breathed.

Draco fixed his eyes on the lake. The water looked too still, too serene, in comparison with the raging storm Potter was unfolding in his chest with his hesitant caress. It felt as though Potter was discovering touch itself; as though it was the first time he brushed another person’s skin in a way that spoke of intimate smiles, of proximity and warmth and murmured questions. And… fuck, had _he_ felt this way at a simple brush of hands before? He couldn’t even remember. Couldn’t even _think_.

Two fingertips snaked into his sleeve and traced two parallel lines in Draco's wrist. When Draco relaxed his hand, letting it rest on its side for Potter to explore, Potter’s thumb found its way into the small cave of Draco’s palm.

Had Potter touched anyone like this before? Any _boy?_

Draco wasn't breathing. Well, he was, _of_ _course_ , but—hardly so. And he knew Potter could hear it. He _knew_ , because he, too, could hear what each touch was doing to Potter.

When Potter’s thumb started to move in circles against his palm, Draco touched back. It was thoughtless, at first, but when Potter allowed it—when Potter spread his hand over Draco’s, let Draco’s fingers find their way to his wrist—it turned avid. He didn’t know how long this moment would last, or what would come afterwards, or if they’d even make it till dawn, and so it was only logical that he make the most of it. That he map that corner of Potter’s body with precision, and ingrain the sound of Potter’s soft sigh in his mind to have something to hold on to when loneliness settled back in his chest.

Potter's hand stilled, and Draco looked up from the water to find Potter was already looking at him. His expression was so easily readable Draco almost huffed. Pity he was busy trying to catch his breath again.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

He needed to know. He needed to make sure he wasn't making all of it up. He couldn't be, right? No one touched a friend the way Potter had just touched him. Merlin, they weren't even friends. What were they doing?

With a slow, almost imperceptible smile, Potter leaned closer.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” he said. His hand was still on Draco's.

This time, Draco did huff. His eyes fell to Potter's lips and he looked away again before he could embarrass himself further. If Potter was just joking and he saw Draco was serious… even worse, if Potter realised this was the first time anyone had even hinted at wanting to kiss him, it'd be over for Draco. He'd gulp the entire cauldron waiting under his bed in a go.

There was a hand to his jaw, then a puff of a breath to his cheek—a chuckle. Then Potter was turning Draco's face with the easiest of movements and touching their lips.

And it was funny, really, how Potter had talked about drowning, and how Draco had joked he'd be the one being drowned in the end. It was funny, because Potter's touch to his face, Potter's mouth to his, felt like being a hundred miles underwater, and yet—warm.

Their tender press of lips ended with Potter nipping at the tip of Draco's upper lip with the tips of both his own lips. Ended with Potter sighing in his retreat, with his hand slipping down to rest on Draco's nape, his thumb tracing the line of hair behind Draco's ear.

“Still okay?” Potter breathed, and that was when Draco realised he needed to open his eyes.

Whatever answer was forming in Draco's mind vanished at the sight of Potter's expression. At the way his gaze seemed to hold the weight of a thousand worlds, a thousand lifetimes of pain and suffering, but also… hope. There was hope there now, and concern, and Draco wondered how lonely it must be to be the saviour of the magical world.

Potter moved his hand as if to retreat, but Draco kept it there with his own, pressing it to the curve of his own throat. And if Potter had been waiting for a reply, that seemed to be enough for him, because he cupped Draco's neck more comfortably and, with a twitch of lips that was almost a ghost of a smile, he took off his glasses and deposited them on the stone beside them.

Draco followed each of his movements with a growing feeling of expectation, and gripped Potter's hand tighter when Potter leaned in again to peck Draco's lips once more.

“Will you tell me if you want me to stop?”

Draco had closed his eyes again, and that made it easier for him to nod—a quick gesture that was quickly followed by a shaky breath, because Potter's other hand was suddenly on his waist, moving, holding Draco's lower back with a warm, pressing touch as Potter sat closer to him. And then Potter was pressing his forehead to Draco's temple, turning Draco's head a bit to the side, a bit backwards, until his next exhale brushed the bare side of Draco's neck.

Draco breathed in. Breathed out. Forced the moan forming in his throat to retreat.

Only a quiet gasp made its way out when Potter first kissed him, just under the line of his jaw. He bit his lip, concentrating on his breathing—on _breathing_ —as Potter moved up, up his jaw, up to the skin behind Draco's ear, leaving behind a trail of soft, impossibly soft kisses.

But then Potter's lips parted. Draco could hear it, a soft, wet sound that had him shivering. And then there was the tip of a tongue at the line of his hair, and it was moving, hot and moist, and that was all it took for Draco to lose it—for his next breath to come out as a shaky groan, for his free hand to find Potter's hair to keep that mouth right where it was.

Potter hummed, and that breath against his damp skin made Draco shiver and press into the heat of Potter's mouth. Potter lapped at his skin, then, moving down again. He sucked, nipped—he rolled a patch of skin between his teeth, then let go of it and soothed it with his tongue, and it was at that point that Draco let out a proper, open-mouthed _moan_.

“God,” Potter breathed, his hand clutching at Draco's hip, at Draco's side, embracing Draco's back as Draco writhed against the heat of that arm crossing his back. “Draco.”

“ _Harry._ ” The name spilled from his lips like a curse and a prayer all at once—breathless and desperate and fierce. The hand that was still cupping the other side of Draco's throat shifted, and Draco let it fall this time, too concerned about the word he'd just let out. But then he realised, with a pang of horror, that he was half-hard, and that Potter's hand was close to his crotch, and his eyes snapped open.

Potter, however, only brought his hand to where the other was and held Draco in a light embrace. He gave Draco's neck one last kiss, one last brush of a nose, and then he rested his cheek on the curve of Draco’s neck.

Draco held on to Potter’s hair, fearing he’d stumble into the water and drown for real if he let go. He took a moment to catch his breath, a moment to still his body, full of restlessness and _want_. He slowly became aware of the fact they were still in the Hogwarts gardens, sitting by the lake in the middle of the night. That he’d just had Harry Potter’s mouth all over his neck, and that Potter’s feet were still in the water, and that the owl was still hooting somewhere in the distance, its solitary cries almost in tune with the gentle swaying of the water.

He was suddenly overwhelmed with the realisation that he didn’t want to let go. That he didn’t want the moment to end; didn’t want what he knew would come when it inevitably did: the doubt, the worry, and the staying awake, wondering if Potter would be diving into the lake as Draco lay in bed.

“I feel stupid asking this for the hundredth time,” Potter mumbled against Draco's shoulder, “but... you okay?”

 _‘Merlin help me,’_ Draco's mind provided.

“Yes, you idiot. I'm perfectly fine, no need to coddle me.” Harry chuckled and made to raise his head, but Draco kept him in place a little bit too harshly. Potter didn't seem to care—he just nuzzled Draco's pyjamas and then let more of his weight rest on Draco. He yawned, his arms falling a bit, but still firmly surrounding Draco's body and holding his waist.

“Hey,” Potter murmured a long moment later.

“Hmm?”

“Will you come here with me again another time?”

Draco huffed in an attempt to keep the tone light—to hide the way his jaw wavered a bit at the question.

“Of course,” he retorted. “Couldn't live with myself if I left you to drown, now could I?”

“Don't be a prick, I know you don't want to be alone either.”

“Hmm, well,” Draco said. Then, as an afterthought, “But I mean it. I couldn't… just—don't you _dare_ drown on me after this, are we clear?”

“Fair enough,” Potter said. “But if I don't get to drown, then you don't get to fall.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

Potter sighed contentedly, slouching even more on him, and Draco's heart did a silly thing in his chest. Merlin… would Potter fall asleep on him? Was that a thing that could happen? Did he _want_ it to happen?

He held still for a few long moments and, sure enough, Potter’s arms slowly started to loosen their hold on his waist. When they fell on his sides altogether, Draco brought a hand to Potter’s back to keep him steady, overwhelmed and silently hoping the touch wouldn’t wake Potter up.

It didn’t. Potter’s breathing slowed and his head rolled forward a bit, his hair tickling Draco’s neck. Then he rolled forward altogether and he jumped, waking up before Draco could hold him in place against his chest. Potter made little _ummph_ sound and Draco, heart racing, brushed Potter’s hair from his face, brushed his fingertips down Potter’s scalp, and murmured, “Here, lie down. Lie down.”

Potter, sleepy and confused, complied, and Draco thanked the lords that his erection was gone as Potter rested his head on his lap.

“Feet up,” Draco added, and when Potter pulled his feet from the water to curl on his side on the rock, Draco took his wand from his pocket and cast a hot-air charm on them, drying them. Then he strengthened the heating charm around them and, as Potter sagged against him with a soft sigh, he Accio’d Potter’s Invisibility Cloak and covered Potter with it. Potter’s glasses clattered against the hard stone. The owl hooted, and this time another one replied.

It was after he’d done all this, after he’d tucked Potter in and made sure he was comfortable, that Draco realised he wasn’t going to fall asleep like that—sitting up, legs crossed, his hand on Potter’s soft strands of hair, reluctant to let go. He huffed at himself, staring out into the water, concentrating on the memory of Potter’s kisses on his throat, his neck. He could still feel those lips on his skin if he concentrated.

Merlin. He’d called Potter ‘ _Harry’_ . He’d let Potter kiss him, kiss his neck. He’d told Potter he’d come back to the lake with him. He’d… he’d felt Potter’s wounds when his fingers had ghosted Potter’s wrist. There was no way he could sleep anyway, was there? Not with all of these thoughts swirling through his mind, not with the many hypothetical scenarios that were worming their way through his head. Scenarios where Potter kissed him again, where Potter dared touch in places he hadn’t before, where Potter asked, _‘Is this okay?’_ , and Draco laughed and, grabbing Potter’s wrist, he pressed Potter’s hand further down his trousers. Scenarios where _‘Harry’_ slipped from his lips again, and again, and was met with a smile without exception.

Scenarios where he was the one being tucked to sleep.

He breathed in, then out, and scraped his nails over Potter’s head ever so gently. Trying to gather his thoughts, he lay back on the stone and left his thoughts to weave themselves with the infinity of the starry sky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super short, I'm aware. I'd been hoping to write some more before posting, but... I've just come to terms with the fact that it makes no sense to keep this scene in my WIP folder, not knowing when I'll have time to write more. So here you go!
> 
> Thanks @april-thelightfury115 for betaing! ❤️

Sunrise found Draco draped over a bundle of cloth that, he soon found out, was Potter’s Invisibility Cloak. He only registered this vaguely, because another, much more pressing detail was roaring in his mind: Potter was fast asleep beside him. He had his mouth open, jaw slack, and he was curled as close to Draco as it was humanly possible without them actually cuddling. 

A million thoughts swarmed in his head, too fast-paced for him to grab at them, to follow one in particular. Thoughts of himself lying on the Hogwarts grounds, limp and dead and bloody. Of himself peacefully asleep with Harry Potter curled beside him. Thoughts of people finding them, snapping pictures of them—of their sleepy figures plastered on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Thoughts of Potter waking up in the middle of the night, tucking his cloak under their heads and lying down beside him. Had Potter watched him sleep before dozing off again? Had he thought of jumping into the lake again, or had his mind been too full of Draco? Had he, Draco wondered while brushing his fingers through his hair, tucked Draco’s hair behind his ear?

Would he ever sleep next to Potter again?

When he sat up, half-heartedly planning his escape back to the castle without waking Potter up, the idiot beside him groaned and rolled on his other side, covering his face with his arm and muttering a low, “Oww” as he stretched his back. A moment later he sat up and patted the stone around him. 

“Ugh. Where—glasses?”

Draco picked them from the grass where they’d fallen at some point, and gave them to him, earning a low, “Thanks.” 

“Hmm,” was Draco’s reply. 

The birds were chirping and the wind had picked up, bringing with it all kinds of sounds from the world around them. It made Draco feel as though what they’d had at night, the tranquility of the hooting owl and the slow lapping of the water, had been replaced by movement and colour and  _ life _ , and he suddenly didn’t know how to look Potter in the eye anymore. How to  _ talk  _ to him. 

Potter stretched his back and brought a hand to the nape of his neck, grunting, “Sleeping on stone… bad idea.”

Draco huffed despite himself. 

“This was all a bad idea.” The words were muttered against his knees; he was hugging them close to his chest.

Potter was splashing his face with water, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, when he said, “It—it wasn’t a  _ bad  _ idea. Or a good one. It was just… an idea.” He frowned at himself, wiping at his cheeks. “It can’t be a bad idea if we’ve both made it to the morning.”

There were so many things Draco wanted to say to that, but they all seemed wrong or silly or insufficient, and when he opened his mouth, what slipped out was, “You kissed me.” He felt his cheeks heat. “We  _ kissed _ .”

“We did.”

_ Merlin. _

“We’re—” Draco frowned. “A mess. We’re messed up, and this can’t possibly not turn into an even bigger mess. This can’t possibly not ruin everything, and how am I supposed to pretend you don’t exist in class, that you’re not in the same room, after—after—”

A hand slipped into his.

“That’s not the only option,” Potter said, voice low.

“Oh, no, of course,” Draco chuckled. He sounded almost hysterical now. “Let’s just tell the whole school we’re—what,  _ friends _ ? With—with benefits? And—that you found me on the edge of the window and brought me to the place where you come to think about death, and why don’t we also spread the word that there’s a cauldron full of poison under my b—”

“You have more of that potion?” Potter cut him off. When Draco didn’t reply, didn’t look at him, Potter squeezed his hand. “Draco. You have more of it?”

“Yeah.”

Potter swallowed. “What are you… what will you do with it?”

“Don’t worry.” Draco looked at him now, and the concern on Potter’s face made his heart twist. “I know better than to break a promise with a Gryffindor.”

Potter nodded. “Good,” he said. And then again, to himself, “Good.” 

Draco wiped his face with a tired hand, feeling the weight of it all welling in his chest, expanding. 

“Lord,” he said. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t think you understand to what extent I have no idea,” Potter muttered. And a second later, “People seem to have the impression that I know exactly what I’m doing, but—”

“ _ Pfft _ .” Draco rolled his eyes. “Please. You’ve never had a single clue what the consequences of your actions would be.”

He’d turned his gaze away from Potter, a silly action to preserve what little sanity he had left, but he quickly turned to Potter again when his statement was met with silence. 

Potter was staring at him, and his gaze fell to Draco’s mouth. Draco swallowed. What they were doing was dangerous, he knew.

“I want to kiss you again,” Potter said, as Draco knew he would. As if there was nothing to lose. As if their past was unimportant, and their future even more so. 

“Why?” Draco had aimed for mildly annoyed curiosity, but his tone shifted of its own accord, turning raw and overflowing with emotion. And when Potter, instead of dignifying his breathless question with an answer, crawled forward and brought his fingertips to the line of Draco’s jaw, Draco let his eyes fall shut and leaned forward into the touch.

The fingers slipped into his hair, that stroking thumb finding Draco’s temple and ear. 

“May I?”

Draco’s lips fell open even though he'd been concentrating on keeping them closed. 

“If you must,” he breathed. He was already angling for Potter’s lips.

Lord, but Potter held him so softly, kissed him so softly. Barely a press of lips, barely even there. It was maddening, because Draco wanted to feel anything but like he was fragile, but it was so... safe.  _ Calm _ . Like the soft waves of the lake lapping against Potter’s ankles under the stare of the moonlight.

Potter nipped at his upper lip again, but didn’t withdraw afterwards like he had last night. Instead, he let his fingers scrape across Draco’s head and parted his lips. 

Slowly, tentatively, Potter worked Draco’s lips open. Draco, dazed and shivering as he was, didn’t realise he needed to kiss back, needed to stop clutching at Potter’s shirt like his life depended on it, until he felt the first hint of wet skin from the inside of Potter’s lips. That’s when everything came into focus, when he realised that every inhale was setting his body further on edge, like the moment might set him on fire, like he might turn into a spiral of dust at the first gush of morning wind. 

“ _ Mmmh _ ,” he managed as he brought Potter’s lower lip—plump and hot and tasting of Potter himself—into his own mouth to savour it. As he unclenched his fists and let one of his hands trail over Potter’s collarbone, while the other searched blindly for Potter’s hair. 

Potter’s next breath came out as a muffled moan against Draco’s mouth. It made Draco moan right back, frowning, leaning into it, letting Potter’s strands of hair slide between his fingers. He’d thought feeling Potter groan against his neck had been good, but to be able to taste the way he came undone, to be able to feel Potter shivering at the first brush of their tongues… Merlin, that was something else altogether. It barely felt  _ real _ .

He didn’t realise Potter’s hand was on his back until there was a tingle against the skin just above the curve of his arse. Potter tried to pull back from the kiss, but Draco, knowing full well what Potter was about to ask, kept him in place with a firm clutch to his head, with a slide of tongues and a determined groan. He curved under Potter’s hand, inviting him to touch, impatient.  _ Needy _ . 

“Lord,” Potter breathed against his lips, a muffled confession. His hand sneaked under the hem of Draco’s pyjama tops and found the dimple on the side of Draco’s back. His touch lingered, a finger circling around it, then inside it.

“You have a—”

“Mhhh,” Draco cut him, slotting their mouths back together. Potter moaned, a long sound that ended in a trembling note. He let his other hand fall from Draco’s shoulder and searched for Draco’s other side, for the dimple above his other arsecheek. 

Draco’s hips startled forward. Potter held him tightly, bringing him closer to his lap, sitting back on the stone so that Draco could crawl atop him. Potter’s mouth slid from his, trailing down his cheek to the corner of his jaw, to his neck, leaving, once again, a wet trail as it went. He mouthed hotly at a spot under Draco’s ear, and Draco’s hips started rolling forward, encouraged by Potter’s little pulls at his sides, by Potter’s thumbs tracing his waist. 

Draco panted, head falling forward. He was hard, painfully so, his body a shivering mess, his hands pulling helplessly at Potter’s impossibly soft hair. 

Just then, a thought crawled up from the depths of his mind. He pulled back, breathless, his mind clouded. Potter’s mouth left his neck with a wet, suckling sound, and for a moment they just breathed, their bodies falling still, Draco’s eyes remaining firmly shut.

“I can't—” Draco started, still catching his breath. “I can’t forgive myself for the things I’ve done.” He suddenly felt sick with the thought. Lost in it. “A-and you shouldn’t forgive me either. You  _ wouldn’t _ , if you knew everything I’ve done, the extent to which I’ve—”

“I know.”

It was a soft statement, one breathed against his throat. Then Potter looked up at him, looked him in the eye, and said, “I know. I saw. I could… see it, sometimes. Through his eyes. I saw what he saw, I saw what he did to you, I—”

“Lord.” With a sigh, Draco rested his forehead against Potter’s, pressing two fingers to Potter’s soft lips before bringing his hands back to Potter’s soft black hair. He didn’t want to hear the rest. Didn’t want to acknowledge the feeling of relief that was washing over him at the thought of not having to explain or justify himself; of not having to keep the darkest corners of his memory a secret. “How many levels of fucked up are we?”

Potter chuckled, but didn’t reply. 

Draco should have left. He should have stood up and left and never talked to him again. But he could still feel Potter’s lips on his own, and the sucked kiss Potter had left on his throat, and all he could do was let more of his weight fall on Potter’s hold of him and keep on breathing. In and out. In and out. 

When he felt like he was ready, he let go of Potter’s hair and brought a thumb to the corner of Potter’s mouth. Potter looked at him then, and their gazes held as Draco traced the curved line of Potter’s lower lip with a trembling fingertip. Those lips, he thought idly, would surely be the end of him. Or what saved him. Perhaps both.

Right before Draco let his hand fall, Potter left a soft kiss on the tip of his thumb.

Draco sighed. His chest felt too small for his heart. 

“We have to go back before people start waking up,” he said. “Your cloak won’t cover our feet.”

“Yeah… yeah. We do,” Potter said. But neither of them moved. 

He was still hard. It was ebbing, but it was still obvious, and he knew Potter knew—that he must have felt it, seen it, the same way Draco had felt how Potter had hardened against his inner thigh. The thought left him dizzy, unbalanced, and he skittered away from it, concentrating instead on tugging at Potter’s wrists until he let go of Draco’s hips. Potter suddenly hissed, and Draco released his grip, heart pounding. 

The cuts. He’d almost forgotten about the cuts.

“It’s okay,” Potter said before Draco could apologise. Then, his face relaxing, “It’s okay.”

Not knowing what to say, Draco brought his hands to Potter’s head, twining his fingers through his soft strands. His touch was delicate this time, not rushed, and when Potter sighed contentedly, he moved Potter’s head until he was resting his cheek on Draco’s chest. 

“You smell so good,” Potter mumbled. Draco felt his cheeks heat, and just held Potter more firmly against himself. “So warm and nice…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco chided him, but Potter was rubbing his cheek against his collarbone now, and he knew that it was a lost battle. That Potter had secured that place he’d always owned in the depths of Draco’s heart the moment he’d brought Draco to the lake, and that there was nothing he could do but pray that this moment with Potter would last a little bit longer.

“Okay, let’s go,” Potter murmured a moment later. 

Reluctantly, Draco shuffled back, watched as Potter put his socks and shoes back on and cast a  _ Finite _ over Draco’s heating charm, picking up his Invisibility Cloak. 

They made their way back toward the castle slowly and in silence. Potter, once again, held Draco close with a hand pressed to his waist, but this time the touch was sure, and strong, and almost—if Draco dare believe it—possessive. 

Once by the door of the Slytherin dorm, they stood in silence for a few long seconds, neither one of them wanting to part. 

“Draco,” Potter whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Vanish the rest of the potion. First thing when you walk in, yeah?”

Draco yawned. His head fell on Potter’s shoulder. 

“Yeah.”

There was a soft sigh against his hair, a tender kiss to his head. Then Potter was gone, the cloak brushing all of Draco as it uncovered him, and he was left sleepy and off-kilter and confused, his hair feeling only half as messy as his speeding heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and thoughts on what you think happens next are super appreciated! 😊 (No concrit, though! thanks ❤)


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